Cinna's Death
by Annie Flickerman
Summary: Cinna's horrible but brave death.


The room smells of absolutely awful things: blood, sweat, feces, urine. Death.

I hold my breath and lower my head, tucking my chin into the collar of my shirt and tensing up. The men who had snatched me push me forward into the cell and slam the door shut behind me. My body feels sore and used and my mind is buzzing with pain and confusion. I remember escorting Katniss to the glass container that would take her into the arena and then it all went black. When I woke up, I was being dragged towards the foul-smelling concrete room.

I fall into a sit and lean back against one of the walls, folding myself up into as small of a ball as I can manage. And then I wait. And wait. And wait. It seems like I've been sitting in here for days but I know it can't be quite that long. My stomach isn't even rumbling yet. My forehead rests against one of my knees and I close my eyes, thinking back on my life to keep my mind off the present.

I had been extremely "lucky" to be brought from District 11 to work in the Capitol. A Peacekeeper had walked past my mother's store and seen some of the designs for sale. He had been impressed by the handiwork and decided to question who had come up with such exquisite work. After brief negotiating, my mother agreed to let me become an apprentice to one of the stylists in the Capitol.

At first, I absolutely loved it. It was everything I had ever hoped for. I'd always wanted to see my name in shining lights and become known for my work though in District 11 that had seemed like a rather intangible dream. I had never really expected that I would get the opportunity I did.

As time dragged on, I began to mature. I realized that the stylists were paid to make the children who would be going into an arena to kill each other, look good. And all to give the Capitol citizens a good show. It was despicable! No...It IS despicable.

So I began to do what little I could. I sometimes gave tips to the tributes from the District I helped, District 12. I did some spying for them - found out some of the other tributes' weaknesses. But still, they never won.

The stylist who had been my mentor eventually passed away. I mourned but somewhere inside I had been so very happy. Now, maybe, I could really get something done. I could show my anger and resentment in a more noticeable way.

My very first year being a stylist, I had some wonderful luck. Katniss Everdeen was one of my tributes. A fiery girl whose training scores were incredibly high. With her flaming personality and sharp skills, perhaps I could help her to win. And at the same time, I wanted to send a message.

I did everything I could to help her get recognition; to turn the Capitol's eyes onto District 12. Somehow, I knew it was time. Time for change. Time for a revolution.

When I found out about the Quarter Quell, I was devastated, even though I knew something like it was coming. One doesn't defy the Capitol and just get away with it. But still, there's something special about this girl from District 12. I don't know if it will lead to anything but I have to hope that it will.

Perhaps my Mockingjay dress overdid it. It is obviously going to cost me my life. But it was worth it. I know that the Districts saw what I did. I know they won't forget me. My name will be permanently etched into history. I am a legend.

A chuckle escapes me and I tilt my head back, clasping my hands together.

"That's right, Cinna! You're a damned legend!" I shout out, tears in my eyes. That's when the door gives a groan and swings open. The figure that is standing in the doorway I recognize immediately.

"Oh, Cinna. You're such a character. It's really quite a shame that you have to be...punished," he gives a sigh, as if he actually cares about my well-being. I try not to snort.

"Good afternoon, Snow. Or is it evening now? I can't tell the time of day very well. No windows, you know," I say, folding my arms against my knees and peering up at him. There's a glistening object in his right hand but I can't tell what it is.

He steps into the room, shaking his head slowly as he begins to approach me. I'm in the far corner of the cell so it'll take him a bit. I draw in a breath and gather my wits. This is it.

"It's quite a lovely day to die," he says, stopping a foot in front of me. The object is now turning over and over in his hand and he's peering down at it. "The sun is shining bright over the Capitol. Tributes are killing each other as we speak. You're making me miss that, you know."

"I thought you were going to send one of your lackeys to do your dirty work. I'm honored that you'd come down yourself," I say, tilting my head and smirking a little. My eyes shift to the object once more and my blood runs cold.

"Recognize this? I thought you might. Of course, it's not the same one. This one was created for a...much different purpose," he murmurs, lowering himself to one knee in front of me and leaning forward. His eyes are narrowed to slits, a sadistic smile on his full lips. "You really should have known better. You should have thought things through. I know you're an intelligent -,"

"I did think things through. You see, some people, like you, smash their way into the history books. They destroy and they manipulate and they ruin things to leave their mark. Others take a gentler approach. They do small acts that lead to big things. They give a push, they light a fire, they ignite the hearts of people. They begin a process that cannot be stopped," my breathing is a little heavy and my heart is pounding. All the words I've never said are just spilling from me and I don't fully understand it. "The Capitol is finished, Snow. Finished!"

I can see the fury in his eyes; the anger pulsing through him. It's causing his body to tremble. And then it happens.

His hand lifts and pushes forward, driving one end of the object in his hand into my chest. It's a thick, sharpened spike made of a solid silver metal. Or maybe it is silver. I cry out in pain and slump down, clawing at the object though I know pulling it out won't help the situation any.

He rises to his feet calmly, brushes a hand through his hair, and turns away, striding out of the room. I hear him murmur something to one of the guards outside and then he's gone.

I grunt softly, lowering my head and peering down at my chest. Blood is seeping out of the wound and drenching the material of my shirt. It looks like a dark red flower that is slowly growing larger. The center of it is the metal object, gleaming brightly from the light entering the room through the open door.

My eyes flutter shut and my breathing slows. I can feel life escaping me and it scares me. But the image of that object has permanently embedded itself into the backs of my eyelids. And it fuels hope for me. I don't think that's what Snow intended it to do but it's what it ends up doing anyways.

Because it means so much, that simple symbol. That simple object stands for so, so much.

Even as my last breath leaves me, the image of the silver Mockingjay stabbed into my chest gives me hope. And that hope shows through in a smile that will forever be planted on my face.


End file.
